


Out of the Ashes

by Zedrobber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry has innate magic, Idiots in Love, Lots of that, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mild self loathing, Romantic Fluff, Tattoos, and some Dark Mark worship, domestic life, just FYI, magical sex, there's porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: Draco is self conscious about his Dark Mark and won't believe that Harry doesn't hate it - so Harry makes a suggestion that might help, with one condition.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 214
Collections: Very Drarry Summer Vibes 2020





	Out of the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesMora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesMora/gifts).



  
  
  


“You never wear short sleeves.”

“Don’t I?” A nonchalant enough reply, but tinted with such crafted carelessness that it immediately made Harry suspicious. He watched as Draco’s eyes flicked upwards to meet his, immediately skittering back down to his book with a deer-startled, almost guilty expression.

“Draco.”

“What is it, Potter? I’m trying to read.”

“You haven’t turned the page in ten minutes.”

“It’s a little hard to concentrate with you staring at me.”

“I’m just asking -”

“Well, don’t.” Draco stood abruptly, snapping the book shut and unfolding himself from the squashy green armchair with elegant irritation. “Alright? Just -” He made a vague gesture at Harry, at the room, at everything within glaring distance. “Just don’t.” Finally, his shoulders slumped, and he dropped the book onto the chair. “I’m going for a bath.”

“Alright.”

It took Harry twenty minutes to decide that the risk of being shouted at was worth it. Cautiously, he made his way to the bathroom and peered around the door, squinting against the steam that immediately fogged up his glasses. 

“Draco?”

There was no answer, and so he stepped inside, bare feet loud against the dark red tiles. “Are you still in here?” The bath was huge - at Draco’s insistence, of course; an imposing, claw-footed beast that you could sink deliciously into up to your neck. Harry had complained about it vehemently right up until the point Draco had murmured into his ear, _just_ too quietly for the salesman to hear, that both of them could easily fit into that tub, and wouldn’t it be delightful to find out all of the filthy things that they could manage in it?

Usually, Draco was all but invisible in a bath - up to his chin in brightly coloured foam or candy-scented bubbles, the embodiment of relaxation. Not today. Today, he was all taut lines and tension, knees pulled up tight, head bowed. He was staring - no, _scowling_ \- at the black that marred the pale expanse of his arm, brows knitted tight together, mouth in that thin, turned-down-at-the-corners grimace which made him look far older than he was. 

“Draco,” Harry tried again, softly as though speaking to a timid animal. “What’s wrong?”

“Go away,” Draco said without looking at him, teeth gritted and words mirror-crack sharp. “Why are you always barging in on me?”

“This is my house as well,” Harry replied, feeling himself beginning to get irritated despite his concern. He took a breath, held it, felt the hot rush of annoyance fade. “I’m allowed to be in it.”

“Debatable,” Draco muttered acidly, though they both knew he didn’t mean it. 

“Please.” Harry moved towards him, behind him, reaching over the edge of the bathtub to stroke over the tension in his shoulders with gentle, work-calloused hands. “Tell me.”

Draco resisted for a long, trembling moment, stiff and silent. Finally, he sagged back against Harry’s touch, sighing. He lifted his arm into Harry’s vision, water streaming in rivulets down to his elbow. “This.”

The Dark Mark. Harry eyed it, remembering when it had stoked nothing in him but revulsion - when even the glimpse of it on Draco’s arm had been enough to make him have to suppress a shudder. At the beginning, when they had both been finding their feet after the War, it had been something Harry hadn’t been sure he would ever get used to. He had tried his best to keep Draco from knowing - had done everything he could to not flinch from it, not to stare - but he knew Draco felt it regardless. How could he not notice, when Harry closed his eyes rather than look?

But now, years later, and after settling into as much domesticity as two people so much at odds with each other could ever manage, Harry had grown used to it. More than used to it, if he was being honest. It was part of Draco - and Harry loved Draco. All of him, Dark Mark included. It was simply another battle scar from the war, another reminder that he had survived despite everything. On Draco, it was a promise, to Harry’s mind - that the past did not define the person you chose to become. 

Harry reached for Draco’s arm, gripping his wrist gently and pressing a kiss to the looping black coils. “What about it?” he asked, nuzzling his face against Draco’s palm, sweet-smelling like parma violets and candyfloss. 

“I hate it. And I know you hate it too.” There was a break threatening in Draco’s voice, a trembling lilt that squeezed Harry’s heart into bright, tight pain for a moment.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t lie to me, Potter! I’ve seen it - I’ve seen how you look at it, how much you avoid even touching it - you can barely even stand to be around me, can you?”

This was unfair, and they both knew it.

“Draco -”

“Don’t fucking _Draco_ me -”

“ _Draco._ I don’t - I don’t hate it. I don’t hate any part of you. Maybe I did, at first - but that wasn’t your fault, not ever. That was something I had to work out for myself.” He kissed the Dark Mark again, tenderly. “It’s a part of you.” 

“Well maybe I don’t want it to be.”

“Don’t you? Or do you just hate how people look at you?”

Draco was silent, his breath held. “I don’t know,” he sighed finally, a defeated rush of air. “Both?” Tilting his head back, he looked up at Harry behind him, his eyes so wide and sad that it made Harry ache to make it better.

“Get out of the bath,” he said gently. “And come into the living room. I have an idea.”

-

By the time Draco joined him - pink and tousled and wrapped in a decadent green bathrobe Harry had fought against having a matching red counterpart to - (unsuccessfully, of course -) Harry was bent over the coffee table with a pad of paper and a pen. 

“So what’s this no doubt brilliant idea?” Draco drawled, throwing himself onto the sofa with gracefully artful composure that only partially hid the nervous tension in his face. “Let me guess - you know a spell to get rid of it magically? Because I can tell you that if such a spell existed, I’d have used it by now. Merlin knows I tried.”

“No,” Harry said, not looking up. “Not a spell.”

He lifted the page he had been scribbling on to show Draco. 

“What even is that?”

Harry felt his face growing hot in embarrassment. “Look, I know I’m no artist, but I don’t think they’re that bad.”

“Alright,” Draco said, softening a little. “Go on.” He twirled a finger in the air to encourage Harry to continue.

“Okay, so, I thought - if you’re serious, if you really, truly hate the Dark Mark -”

“I do -”

“ _Malfoy._ You could get it covered. With another tattoo.”

“So you took it upon yourself to design me a tattoo despite having absolutely zero artistic ability?”

“I - you’re right. I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea.”

“No - no, wait. What are they - is that one a peacock?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t decide between a peacock and just a peacock feather, so I tried both.”

“And that last one?”

“Oh. That’s - that’s a phoenix. I don’t really know why I did that one, I guess. I just thought, you know - “

“Rebirth?” There was a cautiously curious tone to Draco’s voice.

“Yeah, all of that. You can ignore it. You can ignore all of them, honestly. It was just an idea.”

“I suppose you’d be thinking of a Muggle tattoo.”

“Actually, I wasn’t, entirely. There was another part to my idea. And this one you might not like.”

“Bold of you to assume I liked the first part.”

"Just hear me out, okay?"

"Fine. But get on with it.”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to organise his words into a shape that was soft enough at the edges to not hurt Draco's pride. He had never been much good at it; words tended just to spill from him thoughtlessly, but this was important enough to try.

"Give me one night."

“Potter, what _are_ you -”

"Let me finish. It's partially my fault. I know I treated you differently for having the Mark. I'm sorry - I really am - for making you think you were lesser, or not good enough, or anything like that. So, give me one night. Tonight. Let me try and prove to you that I don't hate it, and in the morning, you can choose."

"Choose what, exactly?"

"Either a Muggle tattoo - cover it up permanently with whatever you like, just get rid of the whole thing like it never existed - or a magical one. One you can make visible or not, at will. Where you have the choice to _show_ the Dark Mark as well as to hide it."

"Why would I choose that?" Draco asked with incredulity. "When I've told you I want it gone? When people stare at me like I’m - like I’m the Dark Lord himself, or something?"

"I won't try to change your mind in the morning. I'll come with you no matter what you choose. Just - let me try and make up for what I've done? Please?"

Draco sat in silence for what felt like forever, Harry scratching blunt-bitten nails at the back of his neck in nervous anticipation.

Finally, he sighed, a decadent, long-suffering exhalation. “Alright. But you’re wasting your time.”

“Thank you.”

Heart hammering, Harry stood. “Come with me to bed?”

“Potter, you’re behaving like a blushing virgin. I am naked under this bathrobe, you know. And I think I still have at least one bruise from last time.”

“Can you let me at least _attempt_ romance, Malfoy? I’m trying here.”

“Oh no, don’t let me stop you. Romance away. I’m all yours.” Draco shrugged, barely suppressing the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He followed Harry upstairs with what he felt to be the bare minimum of complaining and threw himself onto the bed before Harry could get into it, arranging his limbs and the bathrobe in a comically sultry pose. 

“Really?”

“Oh, come on Potter, you love it.”

Harry sighed as he kicked off his jeans and boxers. “Luckily, I love you, you absolute git.” He knew that Draco did this; when he felt nervous, or uncomfortable, or uncertain, he only went one of two ways - either ice-freeze meanness, or melodramatic humour. He supposed this was preferable to having a screaming row - though he had to admit, sometimes those were very... _satisfying_ to resolve.

“Move over.”

Draco scooted to the right enough for Harry to drop onto the mattress beside him, pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Now I feel underdressed,” Harry grinned, eyeing Draco. 

“Not the first time, Potter.” He made no move to take the bathrobe off, though, looking at Harry with that silver-spark gleam of challenge in his eyes that always goaded him into ever more reckless contests.

It took all of Harry’s self-control not to just rip that robe from his shoulders and take Draco like he wanted to, rough and fast until his smirk turned to gasping breaths and prayer-fervent pleas. That wasn’t what tonight was for. 

Slowly, hands shaking with the weight of the nerves he was holding in, Harry reached for Draco, shiver-soft fingers pushing the plush green fabric down, away from the pale, lean body hidden within it. Draco watched him with his breath half-held, stuttering out as Harry’s calloused fingertips skated over his ribs, his stomach, his shoulders, inch after inch of skin revealed, each new exploration of his hands followed with a gentle kiss. 

“Potter -” Draco murmured as Harry’s fingers skirted towards the Dark Mark. “You don’t have to -”

“Shh,” Harry replied, kissing Draco’s inner elbow. “Let me.”

“A-Alright.” 

Tentatively at first, waiting for Draco’s reaction, Harry stroked over the looping swirl of the Dark Mark, following the curve of it around to the head of the snake and back again. A little pressure, the back of his nail _just_ dragging over the delicate skin, Draco’s pulse rabbit-fast under his wrist. 

It was, Harry mused, sort of beautiful. Not for what it was, or what it had meant; but the stark cleanliness of it, coal-black lines wasting no detail, the promise of it fading with time still unfulfilled. It held no revulsion for Harry now, not when it was so intrinsically part of Draco, of everything they had gone through to get to this moment. He lowered his head and kissed it, tenderly. Draco jolted beneath him, breath faltering, and Harry took that as permission to continue, gripping Draco’s wrist to keep him still and pressing a trail of hot, chaste kisses over the tattoo before opening his mouth and allowing the tip of his tongue to follow the path of the snake’s coils. Draco _whined_ , writhing and panting, and Harry raised his eyes just long enough to see the hot flush over his cheeks, the inky-black of his eyes staring at him in delirious confusion and arousal. “Good?” he asked, lips still against the Mark, and Draco nodded feverishly, throat working as he tried to remember how to speak.

“Yes, please - I need -”

He was hard and aching, had been almost since Harry had begun to touch him. Almost absently, Harry slid his free hand down Draco’s stomach, wrapping strong fingers around Draco’s cock and giving him just enough friction to make him whimper and arch up into Harry’s grip. 

“ _Potter,_ ” Draco said petulantly. “More -”

“Not yet.”

“But -”

Harry cut him off with a gentle nip at the Mark. “Not until I say so.”

“A- alright, but -”

“I know.” They barely needed to use words, these days - both so attuned to each other that mere words seemed cumbersome more than helpful. “Be good for me?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied, Harry leaned back, reaching into the bedside drawer for lube. They _had_ tried using a spell for it, but Draco complained it was always too cold and slimy compared to Muggle versions, and besides, it ‘didn’t come in interesting flavours’. Harry flicked the cap and poured some into his palm before tossing the bottle towards Draco. “Get ready for me. I want to watch.”

Languidly, he slicked up his cock, heavy and aching against his palm, while Draco stretched himself, his face flushed under Harry’s dark-eyed scrutiny. Watching Draco do this was _delicious_ , every time - the way his mouth would half open in pleasure, his fingers slowly disappearing inside him, head falling back against the pillows as he opened himself up. He knew Draco took longer than necessary, knew he delighted in making Harry wait for it even though he was just as desperate. Usually, he had enough patience to enjoy the show. Usually. 

“Draco,” he warned finally, a wolf-snarl edge to it, and Draco’s breath hitched, eyes wide and blown black. “Enough. On your back.” Draco complied without argument, a sure sign that he was impatient to be fucked.

Oh, but he was _beautiful_ . Spread out underneath him, all marble-cut angles and lean muscle, he looked somehow simultaneously vulnerable and arrogant; a self-assured knowledge of his beauty tinted by the actual understanding that _Harry_ saw it, too, saw all of the mirror-shard pieces of him, raw and bleeding and bile-bitter, and still thought of him as not just fixable, but beautiful; that he watched Draco piecing himself back together fragment by agonising fragment and saw kintsugi.

Harry settled between Draco’s thighs, stroking over them with gentle hands and feeling Draco shudder underneath him, his breath held in trembling anticipation. It took all of Harry’s willpower to sink his cock in slowly, every instinct urging him to just slam into him, claim Draco’s body as his own, but finally he was buried inside Draco, hot and tight and utterly perfect. Draco’s chest heaved with scatter-shot breaths, fingers twisted into the sheets at his sides with desperate, white-knuckled fierceness. 

Allowing Harry to do this, to take control, had been one of the hardest things to navigate in their relationship. Harry could _see_ that Draco needed it; had known from almost the moment they started out with awkward, half-angry fumbles in echoing corridors that Draco needed to let go of _something,_ that if he didn’t, the weight of whatever he was carrying would surely crush him. Convincing Draco of that had been harder - for months, Draco refused to do anything other than fuck Harry, with stubborn single-mindedness that made Harry all the more certain that something had to be done about it. It was only with careful negotiation and the security of several spells that Draco had agreed to try at all. These days, of course, it was something Draco needed and asked for; relinquishing control to Harry was an escape, a relief from responsibility that Harry himself understood all too well - but still, sometimes Harry saw the hesitation before Draco asked, the force of will it took for him to actually verbalise the request.

“Please,” Draco said, teeth bared against the taste of it, and Harry leaned over him, pressing wet, hot kisses to his jaw, his mouth, his neck as he began to fuck him, slow and deep and unrelenting. Draco whined, scrabbling for purchase on the bedsheets, Harry’s unhurried pace utterly maddening, each dragging pull out and slow, hot slide in almost too much too bear. He bit his lip, choking on the litany of pleas that wanted to spill from him like worship, not ready to give Harry the satisfaction. Harry didn’t care; the heat of Draco was overwhelming, the feel of him around his cock the only sharp point of focus in his entire world, blood thundering in his temples and his own breaths harsh and loud and gasping in his ears. He had Draco’s wrists gripped in his hands, strong fingers wrapped around them tight enough to feel the fragile bones underneath, Draco pinned beneath him like a butterfly. 

“Beautiful,” he said, hoarse and ragged, and Draco had nowhere to go, no hiding place to run to so that he could ignore the words. “You’re beautiful.” Draco stilled as he felt a curl of Harry’s innate magic crackle over his over-sensitive skin; the taste of it ozone-thick and sparking on his tongue and the back of his throat, familiar and intoxicating and always just a _little_ terrifying. Harry let it spread over Draco’s stomach, branching like Lichtenberg scars across his chest and up to his shoulder before swirling down to the Dark Mark and settling there, where it glowed bright and golden against the shadow-black of the serpent’s coils, looping around in an endless figure eight that pulsed in rhythm with Harry’s thrusts. For a moment, Draco thought that was all it was doing; illuminating the darkness in some sincere but ultimately useless kind of symbolism. That would be just like Potter. But then the glow became warm against his skin, the hum of magic thrumming bright and pure, and the skin marred by the Mark felt as though it was being peppered with thousands of tiny kisses. He looked up at Harry in wonder, saw the amber-gold light caught in his eyes, and let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. A soft, gentle feeling radiated out from the magic, suffusing the Dark Mark, then his arm, then his whole body; it took Draco a moment to understand that it felt like love - no. Like _adoration._ Like he was some unknowable,beautiful creature, something worthy of blind devotion. It seeped through him, running like raindrops into all of the cracks of him, and he blinked back tears at the sweet, tender ache in his chest and the understanding, steady-soft gaze of Harry above him, still inside him, still dragging him almost to the edge and back with every deep, slow thrust. 

“Please, I need -” he asked, voice a splinter-shard thing, and Harry nodded, shifting his grip to free Draco’s wrists and dipping his head to press a not-quite gentle kiss to his mouth. The warmth stayed, burning bright around them and casting their bodies in honey-dipped light as Harry began to fuck him in earnest, sweat shining golden on his shoulders as he slammed into Draco again and again. Draco _sobbed_ in relief, reaching up to grab at Harry’s shoulders, digging blunt nails into his skin to drag him closer. His cock was trapped between them, sweat-slick and still agonisingly hard, and Draco tilted his hips, desperately chasing enough friction. Harry was unrelenting; lips curled back in a silent snarl, he pounded into Draco as though his life depended on it - was not, in fact, certain that it _didn’t_ , because everything was Draco - the smell of him, the hot, panting whines each thrust forced out of him, the way his skin glowed like an autumn sunset in the light of Harry’s spell, the hot, slick heat of him around Harry’s cock. He felt his magic like a thread, a net, tying them together, all of his love and his hope poured into it for Draco to see. The connection flared between them in brilliant sparks, Draco’s own answering it, strengthening the tie and sending it humming back to Harry with an echo of that same love he was so carefully feeding through. It felt good, a thrumming buzz of pleasure, and Harry groaned, low in his throat. He couldn’t last much longer, could feel himself slipping closer towards the inexorable edge with every moment, his muscles tight and shaking with the effort, his thrusts staccato and brutal. “Draco -” he breathed, leaning back on trembling knees, one hand bruisingly tight on Draco’s hip. 

“Yes - Harry -” Draco said, delirious and black-eyed, magic on his tongue and singing through his veins. Harry curled his fingers around Draco’s cock, twisting his wrist with every upward stroke in the way he liked best, and Draco made a strangled half-scream at the sudden onslaught of sensation, head falling back against the pillows as his spine arched bow-taut, hands white-knuckled claws tangled in the bedsheets. 

“Fuck, please, just like that, please that’s so _good,_ I can’t - Harry -” the name was a warning, but Harry didn’t need to heed it, already too far gone himself. 

“It’s alright,” he gasped out. “For me. Come for me, Draco?”

Draco could do nothing but obey, a guttural howl ripped from somewhere deep inside him as he came all over Harry’s hand, hot and messy and perfect, cock throbbing hot against Harry’s palm. Harry followed helplessly, burying himself deep inside Draco’s body with a wordless groan, sweat-dark hair in his eyes and magic burning through his bones. 

They lay in comfortable, if sticky, silence for a long while, Harry idly tracing over the Dark Mark with the tips of his fingers, feeling the last residual trace of his magic fading from Draco’s skin like warmth from the embers of a fire. Eventually, Draco mumbled a cleaning spell for them both, turning to face Harry in drowsy curiosity. 

“Do you really not hate it?”

“I thought you’d at least get the gist of what I was aiming for,” Harry sighed, too tired and satisfied to be irritated. 

“But -” Draco struggled for a moment with his thoughts. “After everything he did to you. Everything - Voldemort - put you through. Surely this - this is a reminder of all of it, all of that pain and suffering - of everything we saw.”

Harry shrugged, frowning. “It was, at first. I suppose it still would be, on someone else.”

“And on me?”

“On you it’s just another battle scar. We all have them, Draco, some of them deeper than others. None of us escaped the War unscathed, one way or another. I’ve told you that already.”

“I didn’t believe you last time.”

“And this time?”

Draco hummed, non-committal. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Harry said, watching in fond amusement as Draco’s eyes fluttered closed. 

-

It was already light when Harry struggled back to consciousness, shafts of morning sunshine crowding at the edges of the curtains and spilling over the floor. Blindly, he reached out towards Draco and found only cold, empty mattress. 

“Draco?” he mumbled, opening his eyes slowly against the bright sunlight. Draco’s pillow was crumpled, the sheet pulled away from the edge - he _had_ slept there, at least for most of the night. So where was he? Casting a quick Tempus charm, Harry squinted at it for a moment uncomprehendingly until it registered in his sleep-fogged brain. Nearly midday? No wonder Draco had got up; he rarely managed to sleep in past 9am unless Harry was thoroughly wrapped around him. Harry, on the other hand, was _not_ a morning person, and could happily sleep until after lunchtime if left to his own devices.

He rolled out of bed with a groan, fumbling for his glasses and some clothes that were at least vaguely clean, and stumbled downstairs in search of coffee and Draco. Usually, he was to be found at the kitchen table, immaculately dressed and somehow already actually _awake_ , black coffee steaming gently beside him and a selection of ridiculously overpriced but butter-sweet pastries waiting to be devoured while he scowled at the newspaper. Harry didn’t know why he even read it; it was never good news and always made him unreasonably cross for the duration of breakfast when an article mentioned him as an “ex Death Eater” which happened far more often than it probably needed to considering the War had been years ago.

But today the table was almost empty, the dishes stacked neatly by the sink and only Harry’s “You’re A Catch” mug left beside his usual chair, his coffee charmed to be still hot and ready for him. Harry smiled as he lifted it - at least Draco hadn’t been angry at him for anything when he’d left. He was absolutely petty enough to leave his coffee freezing cold and in the “Potter Stinks” mug he’d had made if Harry had done something to particularly irritate him, one of many passive aggressive little _fuck you’_ s which Harry had come to quite enjoy.

It was only when the front door clicked shut and Draco came into the kitchen that Harry realised _where_ he had been. Draco stopped abruptly in the kitchen doorway, eyeing Harry with a vaguely defensive air, chin tilted arrogantly and gaze like flint. “Up at last?”

“Draco -”

“I ate all the pastries, you know.” It was accusatory and also vaguely triumphant.

“You always _do_. Did you get-”

Draco blinked, twisting his arm behind his back ever so slightly, that half-conscious movement telling Harry everything he needed to know. His gaze slid away from Harry to stare at the sink intently, brows furrowed, lips drawn in a thin, hard line. Harry felt his stomach lurch, disappointed, and tried to hide it with a false, cheery smile. 

“Can I see?”

“I -” Draco said, scrubbing one hand anxiously through his hair. “I suppose.”

Carefully, not making eye contact, Draco unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt - a crisp, black one with gold threading at the seams, one of the few concessions to Muggle fashion Draco enjoyed - and rolled up his sleeve. He seemed to take a breath, bracing himself as if for battle, and then he thrust out his arm towards Harry with his eyes like steel-sparks, daring him to say something.

All Harry saw at first was a phoenix; gold and red and orange, taking flight with wings partially outspread and its tail curling down towards Draco’s wrist. Sparks of flame spat from it, ringing the outline of the bird, its head raised and one visible eye bright with amber and black.

It was beautiful - vibrant and alive on Draco’s pale skin, utterly concealing the Dark Mark which he had hated so much; a perfect, wondrous piece of art. And yet Harry couldn’t help the pang of grief for Draco that spiked through him regardless, that Draco had felt like he _had_ to hide it, to hide something that was as much a memory as Harry’s own lightning-bolt scar, even as he nodded and smiled his approval at the design, touched beyond words that Draco had chosen to use his idea after all.

“It’s - it’s lovely, Draco,” he managed to choke out, meaning it, wanting to mean it, because he _loved_ Draco, loved him more than anything in the world, and if Draco was happy then he should be too. He _was_ . He would be. Draco deserved to not be stared at, to not have to hide his arms, to not feel always the outsider in every social gathering. If this is how he had chosen to do it, then Harry could not fault his decision. _It’s not about you, Harry,_ he admonished himself. _Not everyone can live with their past, especially not branded on them forever. Nor should they._ He took a breath, nodded again, managed to make eye contact and hold it. “Honestly. It looks wonderful on you.”

Draco watched him carefully, guarded and silent for a long moment, and then he nodded back. Drawing his wand out from his pocket, he tapped it once against the phoenix, and Harry watched in baffled curiosity as the fire-bright bird faded almost entirely from view, leaving only the looping, swirling coils of the Dark Mark behind it - and a halo of red-gold sparks, surrounding it in the fires of the bird’s rebirth.

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly.

“Oh,” Draco echoed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly Potter, your _face_ -”

“I thought you’d - “

“What, and go to a Muggle tattooist? Does that sound like me?” Harry didn’t answer, knowing perfectly well that Draco had probably agonised over the decision most of the night.

He reached out to run his fingertips over the Dark Mark, tracing across the new ring of flame. “Show me?”

Obligingly, Draco tapped it again, and the phoenix bloomed over his skin like watercolours on parchment. If Harry looked, he could see where the curve of the bird’s tail echoed the head of the snake, the wings hiding the biggest loops of its body. “I see you went with my design,” he said lightly, teasing. “After telling me how terrible my art was.”

“Oh, do shut up, Potter,” Draco groaned. “I didn’t have a better idea at the time.”

“It suits you,” Harry said quietly, meeting Draco’s eyes. “A phoenix, I mean. The symbolism.” 

“Ugh.” But he looked more fond than anything else, a half-smile curling at the edge of his lips. “I can’t promise I won’t still hide the Mark, sometimes. But - Potter -”

“ _Malfoy_?” Harry replied pointedly.

“Harry. Thank you. For - last night.” 

“I assume you don’t just mean the mind-blowing as always orgasm.”

“Please don’t flatter yourself. You were adequate.”

“Then what.”

“For -” Draco gestured vaguely to himself. “I don’t know. For trying? For meaning it? I just thought - assumed - that you really _did_ hate it as much as everyone else, that you were pretending, to make me feel better. But you weren’t, were you.”

“I’m not _that_ good at lying.”

“Apparently not. I overestimated you.”

“Hey.”

Draco smiled, a real, warm smile that made Harry’s heart ache. “You don’t expect me to be nice to you, surely?”

“If you were, I’d worry you’d been replaced. And speaking of you not being nice, I think you owe me some pastries.”

“It’s lunch time.”

“Well, some of us haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“That is a choice you made yourself,” Draco grumbled, already putting on his cloak. He had, Harry noticed, rolled up the other sleeve of his shirt. “The custard ones?”

“And a treacle tart for tonight?”

Draco didn’t reply, but Harry grinned to himself as the front door shut behind him. 

  
  
  



End file.
